Saturday, May 30, 2020

I walk out into a smoking wood. Charred branches, blackened ground. The grass has burnt away. Aftermath.

The fires were hot, and quick, and all-consuming. Last night was a fever.

Walking in silence along familiar paths. Heavy heart. How to repair? Where to start?

O Lord, where have you gone?

A bud, emerging from a dry branch already. Another farther on. Another still.

Life returns, Lord. You are in the new growth. But were you not also in the blasted ground? Will I find treasure there, if only I look?

Help me to see you, in tragedy and birth alike.

(Letter #1,967)